Lip Service
by karabair
Summary: The one where Roy might eventually stop running his mouth long enough to get laid, but I'm not placing any bets on when that will be.  Roy/Riza


Roy runs his fingertip from Riza's shoulder to her elbow. "You have the most amazing pair," he murmurs, pressing his mouth to the notch at the base of her throat, "of arms."

Her body stiffens beneath him – almost imperceptibly, but enough to signal that something is off. "Really?" she says. "That's where you went with that? Arms?"

He lifts his chin and looks up to see her frowning. "Yes?" he says, uncertain how the comment could be offensive. She's a professional sniper and she has the muscles that come with daily rifle lifts. Her arms could crush his skull between them and he may as well let her know that he realizes it.

"The thing is -" she says with a sigh. "You've got your face buried in my chest. You have to look _past_ my tits to see my arms."

"Oh. Well. Obviously, your breasts –" He doesn't say 'tits,' because his oddly developed sense of chivalry discourages vulgar terms for women's body parts. Also, though he's never put this to the test, he's pretty sure he doesn't want to get into a salty-language contest with Riza Hawkeye. He slides his mouth down and begins to kiss the swell of her flushed pink skin. He never makes mistakes with his mouth _this way_.

"Thank you," Riza sighs, and winds fingers into his hair as he kisses her. "These things, see? They're extra bulk that isn't muscle, so they get in my way when I'm trying to shoot. They'll give me back problems before I'm forty. And most of the time when I'm on duty, I have to keep an eye out in case some unevolved dickhead wants an excuse to grope them."

"Terrible," Roy says, between kisses.

"Not my favorite thing in the world. So. When I'm actually in bed with somebody I _want_ to be groping me? I'd appreciate if you pay them some –"

She gasps and shifts long enough for Roy to suggest, "Homage?"

"I was going to say 'lip service'."

Roy laughs at that, although, of course, she doesn't laugh. Riza's deadpan is one of the things he loves most about her, the way she can be the funniest person he knows, yet never laugh at her own jokes. "Very well," he says, and moves to touch the hardened point of her nipple with the tip of his tongue. "Although –" She's aroused as hell, but then, so is he, and he's lying pressed against her naked body with his uniform trousers still on. They have time to play this out.

Now he raises his mouth and moves to press a kiss to her tight, hard biceps. "These _arms_, though. Can I tell you about breasts? You know how I grew up. At Madame Christmas's. Breasts were everywhere. They were like wallpaper. Literally, in certain rooms.  
>But I never saw a woman with a rifleman's arms until –"<p>

"Roy - " Her voice rises in a warning and he pulls back from her, to look into her eyes. He's pretty sure he's said something he shouldn't have, though he hasn't pinned down what or why.  
>"I have to remind myself," she says, "that just about everything you say to me, you must think is a compliment. Or else you wouldn't say it. Especially at a time like now. When you're trying to have sex with me."<p>

The clever thing that comes into his head is, _Who says I'm trying to have sex with you?_ He doesn't say it because – first – possibly they are _not_ competing to see who can say the most clever thing right now. And – second – because that "trying" alarms him. They've slept together before tonight, enough times now that he has actually lost count. They _are_sleeping together, and up to this moment he thought they were just flirting, lounging toward the inevitable without the urgency of seduction. It should have occurred to him that, in trying to be so witty and urbane, he could actually talk his way out of her bed. By, for instance, reminding her of how many pairs of breasts he's had his head buried in _before_ hers.

"Sorry," he says, meekly. "But. I really do think your arms are sexy. I wasn't trying to be cute. That _was_ a compliment."

"I know, sweetie." She lets out a sigh. "It's just maybe not as original as you think it is. I can only hear about how hard and strong and tough I am so many times before it kind of makes me want to smash something." There's a brittleness to her smile as she says, "It isn't your fault."

So. It's not about past women he's bedded, at all, but other hands on her arms, other glib compliments. The conversation she's having isn't even, really, with him. Which, to be fair – _Let me touch my favorite parts of your body, let me tell you how wonderful they are and pretend that that's the reason I'm here with you right now instead of one of a dozen other women who could just as easily be in your place_. That is the way Roy has learned to talk to hostesses and dance hall girls, to a woman whose company he genuinely enjoys but whose name he might not, at that specific moment, remember. It shouldn't have anything to do with Riza Hawkeye, who knows Roy better than any living person, whose strong arms have saved his life a hundred times.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Maybe sometimes I just shouldn't talk."

"Maybe," Riza says, but a true smile replaces the brittle one. With one fingertip, she traces a line across the top of her breasts. "I'll get another tattoo. Right here. It'll say _Shut up, Mustang_".

He lifts the finger and kisses it. "That might raise questions at your annual physical."

"The placement, maybe," she muses. "I'm pretty sure they'll understand the sentiment. Now." She kisses the top of his head then pushes him down toward her chest. "Shut up, Mustang, and get to work." 


End file.
